


Lions

by IWasHereMomentsAgo



Category: Havemercy Series - Jaida Jones & Danielle Bennett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 08:18:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1259371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IWasHereMomentsAgo/pseuds/IWasHereMomentsAgo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Royston and Hal disagree about fairytales.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lions

**Author's Note:**

> I have had this on my hard drive for a while but decided to rewrite it. The story about the lion is an old Spanish fairytale named The Wounded Lion I've been slightly in love with since I was young.

I found him in our library, asleep among the books. I waited for a moment to see if my entering had awoken him as I had not been quiet upon shutting the door, but he did not move save for the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed in his sleep. It was a rare sight, especially in winter, to see Royston resting so peacefully and I did not want to be the one to disturb him. However, a storm was raging outside and I refused to be the reason he caught a cold. I went to fetch the blanket I had been using the previous night when he had been reading to me so late that come morning we were both bleary eyed and in need of more coffee than we could feasibly drink, but the lack of sleep had been worth it. We had found an old and very beautiful compilation of fairytales in a bookshop down the Rue and had spent the night in disagreement over the story of the wounded lion; Royston said he found it trite and concluded that the old Ramanthe tales were much better. While I could not disagree with either of his comments, I found myself enjoying the story - perhaps I felt for the girl, who despite having her herds taken from her every time she helped the lion, continued to assist him anyway. Then, perhaps it was the lion himself, a prince cursed to only be in his true form during the nights he spent alone in his cave. Either way, Royston had had no time for it whatsoever, and when he asked why I liked it so much I could not tell him. 

I wrapped the blanket around his shoulders very gently and removed the book from his lap. He had been reading the fairytales. He’d quite moved on from the story of the lion, and it seemed that he had drifted off at the Arlemagne tale about the boy who had set out to learn fear. I would have fallen asleep too; I had only ever known William to enjoy _that_ particular story.

I did not put the book down, but instead fetched a cushion and curled up on the windowsill, resting my head against the window and listening to the rain as I read by candlelight. Royston was quite right. Most of the stories compiled here were unimpressive, but I couldn’t help but to turn back to the story of the lion. It was beautifully illustrated, though perhaps I only thought as much because I had grown so fond of the poor lion. I traced the mane with my fingers, imagined I could feel the soft fur on his head, hear him purr when I soothed him after removing the thorn from his foot - could lions purr? I should have to ask Royston. This lion could purr though, because he was purring beneath my fingers and-

“I _am_ sorry.” I opened my eyes, blinking in the dim candlelight. Royston was watching me and chuckling quietly to himself. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. You were talking in your sleep.”

“Oh,” I said, too tired to be adequately embarrassed. “And I suppose I was being very witty?”

“Naturally,” he nodded, moving the blanket aside to invite me to sit under it with him. “Very witty indeed. Something or other about that lion of yours.”

I could tell that he hadn’t been awake long and was in desperate need of either more sleep or coffee before he could cope with idle conversation for a prolonged period, for instead of continuing to tease me he pressed his lips against my temple after I had clambered down from the windowsill and joined him by the fire. “So tell me,” he murmured at length, “about the lion.”

I had grown used to his habit of reading too much into stories - it was one that I myself shared. We had spent many hours discussing various interpretations of myths we both enjoyed, and had even crafted up a few of our own from pieces of others, and yet this time it seemed I was to disappoint him. “I can’t. It’s just a lion.” 

“Nonsense,” he told me. He pressed another kiss to my forehead and picked up the book. He flicked through the pages until he reached our lion, and began to read. He was silent for a while, before he said, “She reminds me of you. The girl.”

It did not surprise me that he had found something to talk about; he always did. But, upon occasion, we pulled apart stories so much they became unrecognisable. “Royston, sometimes lions are just lions.”

“Quite right. But sometimes lions are princes cursed and sent away in exile where they meet beautiful maidens who pull thorns from their feet,” he countered, smiling. “And sometimes girls who refuse to stop helping lions no matter how many times their herds are kidnapped in the process can be young men who see the best in awful and miserable old men.”

I, however, rolled my eyes. “You’re neither awful or miserable and the only help I give to you is to provide you with drinkable coffee and edible food.”

“Ah,” he said, “but that’s the most important help anyone can offer, after all. And I _would_ like to think of myself as a lion, miserable or not, if you’ll allow it.”

I did laugh then. “Oh, alright then. Although, perhaps you can take me upstairs and tell me another story where lions can be anyone you want them to be and we can stop stretching _this_ lion’s story all out of shape.”

He considered. “Alright.” And so we got up to put out the candles in the library, and when I  turned to him, he was smiling. “You know, I do believe there’s a story of sorts about a _freckled_ lion.”

I raised an eyebrow but decided to humour him. “ _Is_ there?”

“There is,” he said. “A freckled lion and a handsome prince.”  I could tell by his tone of voice he had already planned out the entire tale in his head and while I knew Royston’s penchant for happy endings (though he pretended as often as he could to the contrary) and therefore knew how _this_ particular story would end, I was glad to see him in good enough spirits to tell it, and so, when he held out his hand, I took it and let him lead me to bed.


End file.
